


tides or winds or fates

by antarctic (ohargos)



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 15:38:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohargos/pseuds/antarctic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you allow yourself to be carried by winds and currents, it is quite easy to lose things such as names, time, gravity, and even your sanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tides or winds or fates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slavetohiscat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slavetohiscat/gifts).



The mirrors are fogged up and the air is humid and heavy. Tealights cast dancing shadows on the walls.

Francis stubs out his cigarette and leans back in the bathtub, eyes fluttering closed, fingers absently tracing the cool edge of the Scotch glass he's set on the tile floor. The hot water has made his cheeks glow as though with a fever, and he feels rather feverish, too, dizzy and disoriented, thoughts collapsing into words and images in his mind, into feelings he cannot articulate, memories that may just as well be dreams.

The room is hazy, and Francis is half-asleep, his body weary and warm in the water, his eyelids leaden. He hears something, a sound he cannot quite discern. There is someone at the door, he thinks. A woman's voice, perhaps, but it's distant and he can't think of a name to go with it. (Something ironic, maybe? Some Latin word ill-suited for its bearer?)  The voice may be calling his name. It may be that it has been calling his name for quite sometime now, growing more impatient with every passing moment. Faintly, he thinks that this very voice has woken him up, too, from a particularly pleasant dream. It's fine if he doesn't answer just now. He'll go see what she wants once he remembers her name. Once he can anchor his thoughts again. He only needs a moment.

Resting his cheek against the smooth porcelain, Francis glances at the steamy mirror and cannot see his own reflection. (He is relieved, though doesn't quite know why.) There are only faint shadows moving across the dim surface, near-forgotten ghosts. Somewhat drunk, lungs full of steam, he feels as though he is floating.

\---

All his life, Francis has been drifting and floating. Not that anyone else would think so. He is wealthy and smart and moves with grace, and thus he cannot possibly be carried by currents or winds or fates.

And yet.

When Francis is born, his girl of a mother looks at him with delight and surprise, as she would a new acquaintance. She is charmed by him, but doesn't for a minute see herself becoming an anchor for him, or even a lighthouse. Rather, she will be an ocean wind, sometimes a gale pushing him out towards the horizon, and sometimes a breeze gently swaying him. His grandparents are there, of course, making sure they both stay afloat, but scarcely affecting his course.

So there is the beautiful old house in Boston where the rooms in his mother's control constantly change style and colour, the parties with her old classmates and the places where she had had her firsts (drink, kiss, cigarette - certain other little sins were saved for more exotic locations). There is the quiet cottage in France, the scent of woodsmoke and winter apples, a nearly life-size snow horse he builds with the neighbour's children, the old cat that is easy to anger but that comes to trust Francis, and then spontaneous trips to Paris when his mother cannot take the stillness any more, tiny balconies, beautiful shopping arcades, endless rows of gorgeous handmade clothes, silk scarves and ties for Francis and silk dresses for his mother, the intoxicating scent from the little corner bakeries in the early morning. And then there is the wind that whisks Francis from the long-erased hills of Boston to the astounding mountains of Switzerland, a change that resembles the beginning of some adventure book, until he finds that within the white walls of the Institute, no adventures are allowed. So eventually, he floats across the Atlantic once more.

And when his mother finds a man a few years older than Francis to be his stepfather, Francis drifts first to his aunt's lovely country house, and then to Hampden College. His history is impressive enough to make his movements seem deliberate, but yet, once more, he allows himself to drift. As the winds or tides or fates have it, he comes across Julian, and then Henry and all his single-minded, steady passion. It is so different from Francis's own - he is able to immerse himself in things, and has his indulgences, of course, but he is used to frequently losing his roots and growing them anew. Henry, instead, has been on this same path ever since his childhood accident, and Francis finds that frightening and charming at the same time. For a short while, he thinks Henry is someone he might love. (Just to imagine what it would be like causes Francis's breath to catch. To be loved by someone with such intensity, such dedication, nothing like his mother's fickle affections.) However, he soon comes to find that Henry's love is cool and reserved for words, for books, for verb moods and voices, for Julian's approach to language and knowledge. But Francis is fond of this little world that is almost his own. (He isn't fooling himself; he always knows he doesn't quite belong. Henry has his all-consuming passion and his understanding with Julian. The twins have each other. Bunny has that whole other life, that world of living languages, of loud sounds and careless thoughts. And he himself... he has the ability to make himself appear as though he is not completely adrift. And for now, it is enough.)

Although it does not appear that way, in reality, Francis is drifting and floating.

\---

His mother, too, floats, through rooms and parties and from one man to another, through her life and in and out of his. As a young boy, he is thrilled to see her, and fervently hopes she'd stop and spend time with him, but she is popular and restless and young and rarely stays for long. 

Sometimes she is there only for a moment. She appears through the French window, as if blown in by some warm, sweet-scented evening wind, all fine fabrics and meticulously painted lips and feline movements, trailing in a cloud of perfume. She floats to Francis, gives him a dazzling smile, brushes her fingers against his cheek or earlobe and says, "Fix me a drink, won't you, darling?" with her sweetest voice, settling on the divan.

Hoping she might stay a little longer if she's very pleased, he puts all his effort into it, and soon becomes not only a cocktail expert, but also a fantastic (and extravagant) cook. 

He especially loves those afternoons when his mother comes down the stairs in a silk dressing gown, a perfectly manicured hand resting lightly against her brow, shading her eyes, and asks the maid to close the curtains. Those days, she often has cravings for something very particular (never the same thing twice) and Francis quickly comes up with something that might go well with whatever it is she desires. She is never more pleased with him than she is then. "What a clever boy you are," she tells him, fluffing his red hair, kissing his cheek and leaving behind a red imprint, "such a marvelous, clever boy." Nursing her hangover, she doesn't go out, but instead watches soap operas on the tv and Francis is allowed to join her.

The next day she floats away again, and he cooks something wonderful for himself from the leftovers, more as a practice than an indulgence.

\--

It is the first time Henry, Bunny and Francis go to the twins' apartment, and it is clear that Charles and Camilla feel rather awkward, in all likelihood because it makes them painfully aware that the others come from much wealthier backgrounds. Francis understands this concern, although it is not really as great an issue as they might think - Bunny's family may act like they're very rich but it's quite clear that's merely an act, and although Francis has seen Henry's apartment only once or twice, he is quite certain that while more spacious, it's much more Spartan than the twins' abode. Francis himself has never much cared for interior design. As far as aesthetics go, it's art and clothes he is interested in. He has lived in too many places and been spirited away elsewhere too often to invest very much in anything you can't carry with you. However, as approaching the subject is likely to only make the twins more self-conscious, Francis focuses on something else altogether. As soon as everyone has a drink in their hand, he gets started on the food, giving the others some simple tasks, and soon they have a rather wonderful dinner cooking, and all hesitations and worries are forgotten.

It is rather strange to him that a skill he learned for just one person's sake (even if he found a really fantastic guy one day, he doubts he'd make a good househusband) can be used like this, but it makes him quite happy. As they are eating, he looks at the people around the table, and finds himself hoping that they'll stay. (It feels less foolish to hope for that than it did with his mother.) And for quite some time, they do. It is curious how tightly sharing food and drink and a dead language can bind people together.

\--

Francis smokes and boils laurel leaves while Charles and Camilla make _chitons_ out of bedsheets and Henry reads and Bunny wanders around the house, bored.  Francis hovers by the stove and thinks of the Oracle of Delphi, of spring water and the  _Άδυτον_. He is happy they won't have to close themselves in small rooms, in temple chambers or monks' cells. Such spaces remind him of the Swiss Institute and its inescapable grounds. Instead, they shall have the wild forest and the expanse of the sky. Instead, they escape the bony chambers of their skulls, the limits of human reason. A chill like a breath of wind rushes along his spine, and he shivers despite the heat of the stove.

\---

As his mother flits from one guest to another, Francis reads _The Iliad_. His mother wanted him to be here, to show what a well-behaved and well-dressed boy she has, but he has already been admired by friends and relatives, and there is little left for him to do. He would prefer to read in his room, but knows his mother wants him here, and so he tries to focus despite all the chatter and the music.

He is surprised when she floats to him. "Oh I love this song," she chirps delightedly, a few feet from him, and then coos, her arm outstretched, wiggling her fingers and smiling, "Come on, Francis, my sweet. Come dance with mommy."

(He never actually calls her 'mommy'.)

He puts the book aside, but hesitates. "I don't know how to dance, mother."

"You don't?" she says, genuinely surprised, despite never having taught him such a thing. Her face falls in disappointment, and it feels like cold water spreading through Francis's body. He so wants to please her but there's just no way. But then a mischievous smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, "Well, then you absolutely need to learn, my dear."

Francis goes to her, hesitantly taking her hands, and she laughs delightedly, and then spins him around the hall and past all the other balldancers so fast that the world seems to be wildly spinning even when she lets him go back to his seat.

She does teach him to dance, eventually, even if she tires of such classes quickly (just as she tires of playing with him), and this way, teaches him to read because the book characters are still there, even when his mother flutters away once more.

\--

They have spent a lovely long late summer day at his aunt's house and when one of his mother's favourite songs comes on the radio, Francis rather drunk on brandy and generally feeling sentimental. He slides across the floor to Camilla, who is focused on her reading.

"Milady, may I?" Her head snaps up, surprised.

Seeing his outstretched hand, she raises her eyebrows, "Francis?"

"Just this dance."

She laughs and softly shakes her head, but puts her book aside and grasps his hand. For the first few steps, he leads her gracefully but then picks up the pace. He could be a good dance partner, of course, his mother did eventually train him well, but he longs for that sense of dizziness, where the outlines of the world start to grow dim and indistinct, and it feels like losing gravity.

Camilla is able to keep up rather well, and stumbles only when she notices Charles in the doorway. Francis, however, never loses his momentum, but spins them towards Charles and without a word, grasps his hand and pulls him along. Charles, bewildered, is about to pull away, but Camilla laughs and gives him a look,  _come on now_ , and soon the three of them are wildly spinning around the room. Camilla's cheeks are flushed and Charles is grinning, and Francis just stares at them. Somehow, they remind him of his mother. Objectively, she is not as beautiful as the twins. She shares the Abernathy features, the boniness, all knuckles and cheekbones. But there is that air of effortless charm that they all have, a kind of a light, and the way that and even here, his fingers tightly clutching theirs, his movements synchronised with theirs, it seems that they are unattainable, always a step away.

"I can't; no more," Camilla laughs breathlessly, and finally breaks free, "I just need the world to stop spinning for a moment."

Charles is about to follow her, but Francis is still in that sentimental mood which is only made worse by the sense of distance from these beautiful creatures. And so, perfectly aware of how foolish it is, he says, "Oh no, you only just started! It's hardly fair to abandon your partner when the song is only halfway through."

He knows he is being stupid, but just for now, just for today, for this moment he doesn't care. He watches Charles's face closely, and when he sees a flicker of light that might be affection as well as danger, Francis pulls him closer by the waist. Charles gives in, and dances with him, even faster than before, and Francis can feel both of their hearts pounding.

After late dinner, they linger in the kitchen playing cards until everyone else has gone to bed.

"Well, goodnight then," Francis says, and doesn't mean it.

"Goodnight," Charles says, standing up. Francis leans in, giving him a quick kiss on the corner of the mouth, nearly innocent and of course not at all. Charles turns his head slightly and catches his lips, and Francis opens his mouth against Charles's hot, wet mouth. His head is (still) spinning. They're only moving in circles, he knows, but he doesn't mind that so much.

He has always wanted to play  _κότταβος_ , but instead he licks red wine out of the hollow of Charles's collarbone, and knows that this, too, is a game, only one with no _plastinx_ and no _manes_ , but a game nevertheless. 

 --

"This is not a game," Henry says. His eyes are burning with firelight, the kind of fire named  _pur_ , and it feels like the savage heat of it burns right through your core.

It is no game. It's with perfect seriousness that they step into the woods in their bedsheets, and it is no game when they call the god and he comes. When they spin and dash and writhe and run and lose gravity and feel the earth move beneath their feet.

It's no game when Charles drinks rainwater off Camilla's lips and Francis Charles's and Henry his. And perhaps there is something other than rainwater intoxicating them, too. Afterwards, when Francis awakens after having slept like a dead man, after having slipped into a dreamless dark perhaps situated somewhere on the borderlands between dream and death, he finds that there is a red smudge at the corner of his mouth, and it reminds him of his mother's lipstick, only it has a coppery taste.

Looking at himself in the mirror, Francis feels like he is floating. He traces his own outlines. He feels terribly and beautifully alive. 'It was a wind that brought me here,' he whispers. 'Or a current. Or fate.' Whatever it was, it feels inevitable that he is standing there now, a blood stain on his mouth, a trace of a god's presence lingering somewhere in his brainstem.

\---

Slowly, Francis opens his eyes. There are heavy, light grey clouds crossing the sky, and vibrant birch leaves drifting down.

There's a memory he can no longer quite catch, of lying in a bathtub, half-asleep, and someone calling his name. There is not much more he can remember, just the heavy air and the desire to stay in that room forever, to forget about the world outside, the voice calling him, to let the mirrors stay steamy and reflect only ghosts, and not his face. (Not a face worn by years, not faded white scars on his wrists, not his wife's garishly-coloured dress when she finally opens the door.)

But instead he is here, drifting aimlessly in a rowboat, and it's one of those lovely late summer days. He thinks of Henry, lost in a book written in some obscure language whose writing system no one else can recognise. Of Charles and Camilla, playing cards on the porch. Of Bunny, talking with Marion on the phone and eating a Twinkie.

Someone is calling his name. Francis doesn't answer. He doesn't recognise the voice, he's lost the oars, he'd rather let the wind carry him, or the current, or fate. (By not answering, he chooses his course.)

 

 


End file.
